A Haunting
by CeCe Away
Summary: Written for the Gen Big Bang 2011. Pre-series. The Winchesters enter a haunted mansion to go after a vengeful spirit of a serial child killer. Hurt!Sam Hurt!Dean BA/worried!John
1. Chapter 1

Pre-series. Dean is 18, Sam is 14. The Winchesters enter a haunted mansion to go after a vengeful spirit of a serial child killer.

Written for the Gen Big Bang 2011

Usual Disclaimers apply

**A Haunting**

_"You can't keep him from me."_ The disembodied voice purred so close to John's ear, he shivered at the icy cold breath.

"Watch me." Gripping Dean tighter to his side, John tugged the ornate door handle, unsurprised when it wouldn't budge. Ghost had them bottled up tight on lockdown.

Feminine laughter echoed around the mansion's spacious foyer.

"This way, son." John hefted Dean higher, not liking the kid's sluggish movements. Damn ghost had flung him headlong into the iron-wrought banister. John headed into the east wing, searching for another way out, one arm supporting a groggy Dean, the opposite hand gripping an iron fire poker.

"I can walk," Dean murmured.

"I know you can." John pulled them down the wide gloomy hallway. There hadn't been electricity running through the abandoned estate for a decade, yet the fluted wall sconces flickered around them almost as though the spirit herded them. "Just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I'll do the rest."

Nudging a door open with his foot, John peered inside, spotting a large bay window they could try. Gauzy curtains with moth-bitten holes billowed inward without a breeze to lift them in front of closed panes of old wavery glass.

"Dad."

Warning edged Dean's tone. John's gaze followed the darkness toward the end of the hallway where the woman materialized.

A slender finger waggled disapprovingly. _"You can't keep him from me,"_ her voice sighed around them, as close and intimately as a lover's, though her lips remained still. Her dark hair and pale pink gown—early 1900s style—floated around her willowy frame like smoke. She didn't look anything like a serial killer, yet John Winchester had been at this long enough to know appearances didn't mean jack.

Dorthea Truman had murdered five children when she was alive, two of them her own, though none of their bodies had ever been found, even after Dorthea also disappeared. It was rumored she'd run off out of grief until her journal was found years later inside a nook behind the dumb waiter, confessing to the gruesome murders of the children. Following, the mansion had a long history of children dying of mysterious causes, some simply disappearing until the last owners abandoned the property and whatever evil resided inside went dormant.

None of which would have been noticed by the Winchesters. Hundred-year-old murders weren't exactly on the Hunters' radar until local kids decided daring each other inside the creepy haunted estate would be fun. So far two kids were dead and that was two too many.

John's palm tightened around the fire poker. Spirits that specifically target children were the sickest kind of monsters out there in John's opinion. It's the reason he had kept Sam out of this particular hunt, but apparently at eighteen, Dean was still close enough to a kid for the bitch to go after. Rotting carpet wrinkled beneath John's boot, making him slide a little on the wood beneath. It was going to be a personal pleasure to take her down.

Pearly laughter tinkled around them. _"He's mine, he's mine."_ And abruptly the ghost blinked out of existence and reappeared inches from John's face.

Prepared for the move, John swung out, passing the fire poker through her . . . and nothing . . . not a damn thing happened. Shocked, John swiped out again, but the poker stopped mid-swing as though it slammed against an invisible wall, vibrating in his fist. Light eyes turned to him just before he flew back into a door, jerking Dean from his grasp.

"Dad!" the kid screamed as the woman's arms enveloped him and they disappeared within swirling tendrils of smoke and mist.

**Ooo000ooO**

"Dean!" John pulled himself up off the floor, ran to where the ghost and Dean had disappeared, his chest heaving with fear. She had taken Dean. Bitch had his son.

What the hell kind of spirit was immune to iron? Did that mean salt and burning her bones—when he found them—wouldn't work either? John was reeling, everything he knew about getting rid of ghosts shot to hell with this one. The only thing for certain he knew about Dorthea Truman was that her ghost was bound to the house somehow. Sammy pointed that out when one of the kids that made it out said the ghost raged at the doorway, but sizzled from sight when she attempted to follow him. So get Dean out of the mansion, then find Dorthea's remains. Maybe she was a powerful enough ghost it would take an exorcism over her bones before he torched them. John knew several exorcisms by heart.

Rage and fear for his son threatened to buckle John's knees. _Slow it down. Think it through_. Dean needed him to be calm. John took a steadying breath, ran his hands through his hair. Okay, Dorthea couldn't leave the mansion, which meant she'd have to have stashed Dean within the estate somewhere. All John had to do was find him before Dorthea . . .

Gorge rose to his throat. John's hands curled into fists. He had to find Dean now.

**ooo000ooo**

_"Shh, shhhh, darling. All will be well. Everything's going to be just fine." _

Soft lips pressed against Dean's temple. Something really stunk. His eyelids fluttered open, sight hazy, brain cloudy, until his vision came into focus on the corpse staring back at him.

Dean flinched back, rolling onto something brittle that ground beneath his shoulder. Craning his neck to see what it was, Dean found himself on top of another skeleton. Small. Child. Dressed in those old-fashioned shorts and frilly shirt they used to force young boys to wear. Gulping, he turned back to the other corpse, recognizing the thirteen-year-old girl that had gone missing only last week.

Dean frowned. He lay between two murdered children in . . . he took in his surroundings. Small tight dark cramped space. Pointy, like a triangle. Ambient light slashed in from some kind of stained glass window way way up at the point of the triangle. No doors or other windows. Like someone had mortared up their own hidey-hole. No way in or out unless you got dragged in by the poltergeist express. Peachy.

Dean went to sit up, grimacing at the sudden bout of dizziness.

_"Don't be afraid, sweetheart. It will be over soon."_ A cool hand rippled across his brow. The ghost flickered beside him like a TV on the fritz, her knees melding through the dead girl's chest like transparent gelatin.

Dean lurched back from Dorthea Truman's palm. "The hell lady!"

She smiled indulgently, leaning forward over him and Dean found himself held immobile, unable to shift away. A blade suddenly flashed in her hand.

"You get away from me! Dad! Dad! I'm in here!"

"_Shhhh_." She lifted a finger to his lips at the same time she rucked his T-shirt up and rested the flat side of her blade across the goose pebbles rising across Dean's skin.

"Daaaaaaad!"

**Ooo000ooO**

Sam paced outside the motel room, too keyed up to remain inside. Something was off with this hunt, but he couldn't figure out what. He'd helped his dad with a lot of the research and it was a clear and clean cut case. Simple. Find the murderess's remains, which had to be in the house, and salt and burn her. His dad and Dean could do a job like this in their sleep. So what was wrong?

Sam's lips twisted, something nagging at him, but he couldn't place it. He'd gone over the research a billion times. Maybe it was just that it involved kids. Those were always tough. And a crazy ghost. The lady had to be insane to kill her own children. And crazy meant unpredictable. He peered across the dark parking lot, willing the Impala to rumble into view.

Even though there were variables, like how difficult it might be to find a body no one else had managed to uncover in a hundred years, Sam had hoped his brother and father would be back by now.

Sam went over the details in his mind again. Dorthea Truman confessed to the murders in her dairy, but had never given a reason why. She grew up poor, but married into wealth, had the mansion built, then for no reason went bat-shit crazy and murdered her two children, and then two orphans her husband had apparently brought in to console his grieving wife because no one at that time knew she was the killer. Next she killed some random boy a little older than Sam—no one knew where she'd picked him up from or even that there'd been a fifth child until she revealed in her journal, in an almost giddy scrawl, that she was about to take the final child's life and it would all be over. That was her last entry before Dorthea, herself, disappeared. Now Dorthea was back, her ghost replaying the gruesome deeds she had committed in life.

Sam kept asking himself why. Why did she do it? What did she mean when she said it would all be over? He pressed his lips together because even at his young age he knew sometimes there weren't any answers.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two **

John ran down the third corridor, puffs of dust kicking up beneath his boots. He'd already systematically searched every room shooting off from the first two hallways, finding nothing. As a Hunter he knew it was vital to remain calm and keep with the search pattern, but as a father . . . systematic be damned. He was well beyond that now, tearing through the mansion, shouting his son's name.

"Dean! Come on, give me something! Dean!" _Where are you, kid?_

_"Sing a song of sixpence."_

A child's voice sang softly through the muted air.

John spun around, staring back at the empty corridor, dust motes floating in the hazy light.

_"A pocket full of rye."_

A small girl peeked out from behind a claw-footed antique sideboard. Thick blond ringlets bounced as she took a hesitant step backwards. Thin fingers curled into the fabric of her pinafore. One of her long stockings had fallen down, pooling around the ankle of a dainty laced-up boot.

"Do you know where Billy is?" Her bottom lip quivered.

"Billy?" John said and the child shrank back, eye's wide. John lifted his palms in a non-threatening gesture. "Who's Billy, honey?"

Her gaze tracked around the hallway, searching. "My—my brother. Momma took him."

Billy? William. Dorthea's seven-year-old son. John crouched down to be on the young girl's level. "Are you Elizabeth?"

The child nodded, ringlets bobbing. "Do you know where Billy is?"

John shook his head. "I'm sorry. Do you know where you . . ." He paused, wondering how to ask the spirit of a child where her remains were hidden. If he could find her, discover what kind of cranny Dorthea used, it might lead him to Dean. "Do you know where the other part of you is?"

"No!" The sweet little features contorted, eyes and mouth elongating into gaping holes. "I don't like it in there! I'm alone and it's dark!" Arms outstretched, she shoved into John, plowing straight through him like a jolt of electricity inside his chest.

Flat on his back, dazed and trying to squeeze in a breath, John blinked at the trailing wisps of violet light fleeing down the corridor.

**Ooo000ooO**

Dean came to screaming in pain. He recoiled, expecting the ghost and her knife to still be at him, but he was alone. Well, alone as one could be squashed in a cramped hole with two dead kids. He lifted his head, relieved that he could move, no longer restrained immobile by the bitch while she carved into him. His chest was a bloody mess, drilling sharp pain with each exhalation. He fingered his soaked T-shirt up to survey the damage.

Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as it had felt. The slices weren't even that deep, just bleeding a lot, which could be bad in its own right. At least Insane Jane hadn't messed with his amulet. Dean pushed up on his elbows, stilling at the sudden throbbing in his head. Oh yeah, right. Head met banister earlier. Between his pulsing melon and sliced chest and being ghostknapped and trapped inside a wall, Dean would say things weren't exactly on the up side.

Making it to a sitting position, Dean shrugged out of his flannel shirt, panting through the stabs of pain, pulled his ruined T-shirt off and pressed the wadded flannel against his wounds to stem the bleeding, hissing at the sting.

Great. He really didn't want to face the ghost again shirtless. He already felt stupid and vulnerable enough. He eyed the dead girl next to him. Ghost carved her up as well by the looks of the dried blood coating her blouse, but her oversized open sweater looked clean. Dean grimaced. Naw. He'd rather go without.

Holding the flannel wad to his chest, Dean used his other arm to pull himself up the wall and gain his feet, resting there until the dank little room stopped tilting to the side.

"Okay," he spoke to the corpses."The plan is to get out of here and find my dad. Don't suppose either of you know where crazy train's bones are stashed? No? Didn't think so." He stretched up, trying to reach the little stained glass window, but it was still several feet up. "But don't you two worry. Soon as I take care of her, I'm coming back for you, lay you to rest, well, or whatever."

Dean studied the walls. Old bricks and mortar. It was going to be a bitch to break through, even if he had some kind of sledgehammer. But it was an old house. Maybe he could find a crack in the mortar, loosen it up. Then again . . . he glanced at the little boy. By the old-fashioned outfit and the decay of the body, he had to be one of the original children killed when Dorthea was alive. She couldn't have floated in through walls back then, so how did she carry the kid in here? Had to be some secret entrance somewhere. Unless she dragged the child in here before sealing him up.

Rage flared inside Dean's gut at the thought of some poor kid, scared, alone and bleeding out while the scrape of mortar sliding across bricks little by little walled him in.

He was so going to end this ghost.

**ooo000ooo**

Sam stole a little blue Toyota truck. He didn't even have his driver's license yet, in his own name at least. He had two under aliases, though he'd never had to use them and Dean said with his baby face no cop would ever buy it anyway. Besides, stolen car. If he got pulled over, underage driving would be the least of his worries.

And then there was his dad to face. Sam had been told explicitly that he was not to be involved in this case beyond research. When he showed up at the mansion and found that Dean and their father were okay—which Sam really hoped they were—his dad was going to be pissed. He hadn't even let Sam go with them on their first scope out of the place . . . and they hadn't even gone inside.

Not that Sam complained. His dad's gut instincts were usually on the money and if he didn't want Sam anywhere near the ghost of a child murderer, that was fine by him. But John had also taught his sons to rely on their own instincts and right now Sam's instincts were screaming. His family was in trouble.

He pulled into the long driveway, seeing the mansion at a distance for the first time. Place was huge. The driveway seemed to go on for the length of three city blocks. He pulled up behind the Impala, disappointed that it was still here. He'd almost hoped it'd be gone, his dad and Dean finished and out of here, just missing him on the road. As though he could ever miss the Impala cruising past him.

Sam stepped out of the truck, easing the door quietly closed and looked around. The mansion's front doors were easily twelve feet high and at either side of the entranceway, the front of the building bent into sharp corners that extended outward like reaching arms. An uneasy feeling of those walls slapping together and crushing him between them rushed through Sam, which was stupid because entire building wings didn't just move.

Shaking the feeling off, Sam peered at the soft light flickering through the windows and reached inside the long front pocket of his hoodie for the scant supplies he'd gathered. A flashlight, lighter, small shaker of salt, which was already spilling inside his pocket, and his pocket knife. The lighter and knife he took out and slipped into his jean's pocket. He didn't have any accelerant because his dad had taken all they had with them.

Sam climbed the wide front steps and reached toward the most intricate brass doorknobs he'd ever seen. Looked like horse's heads, or maybe goats. The moment his fingers touched the knob, a hand clamped on his shoulder and yanked him back. He flailed down the steps, his butt smacking the concrete.

A boy flew at him, fists clenched, sending Sam scraping across the driveway until his back whacked against the truck's back tire. The spirit bent down into Sam's face, jaw muscles twitching with rage, veins bulging. Fingers dug against Sam's temples even as he tried to smack them away and feminine whispers floated on the breeze. The boy's eyes jolted up. He jerked away from Sam with a limp, and pressed his hands to his own head, features screwing into a snarl. Sam didn't understand what was happening. He couldn't make out what the whispers were saying.

Without warning the boy slashed into his own face, clawing at ribbons of skin that curled down, revealing a bloody skull beneath. Hands flew faster and faster, digging into his throat, chest, arms like a swarm of locusts until the pulpy remnants dropped to the ground and dissolved into the pavement like the boy was never there.

The front doors creaked inward.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Dean's fingers were raw from searching every brick. Damn superior craftsmanship. None of the bricks were anywhere near loose. He wasn't even certain which of the three walls, if any, were outside walls and which faced the inside of the mansion. He somehow thought those might not be as thick.

He wasn't getting anywhere. His chest hurt, head ached, and the smelly corpses were really starting to freak him out. Plus they made for terrible company.

He sagged against the wall to take a breather, and lifted the wad of flannel his hands had been taking turns pressing to his chest. Bleeding had slowed considerably, would probably stop altogether if he stopped moving around, but his dad had no way of knowing where he was. Pounding on the walls and shouting 'til he was hoarse hadn't brought Dad to the rescue so it was up to Dean to figure something out.

Dean's throat tightened. What if his dad hadn't come because he couldn't?

"Dad!" He shouted again, kicked at the wall, panicking. He had to get out of here, had to get out now. He grabbed his gun from the back of his waistband, aimed it at the wall, desperate to shoot his way out, willing to take the chance the bullet wouldn't ricochet off the bricks and hit him.

Aiming low so if it did ricochet the bullet would go high, Dean froze, the obvious answer slamming into him. "Stupid, stupid," he muttered, and lifted the muzzle of the gun toward the stained glass. No way his dad wouldn't hear this.

ooo000ooo

John raced down the hall in the direction the little girl-turned-wispy-light had fled, coming to a dead end where a dust-encrusted country landscape hung on the flat wall. It felt like the hallway narrowed, was closing in. He turned, wondering which one of the rooms she'd ducked into when she materialized, screaming at the shrillest timbre of her non-existent lungs, "I said no!" and shoved John into the wall, before speeding away back down the corridor, short legs pumping and blurring into streaky strands of light.

John lurched up after her, then stopped, pivoting back toward the end of the hall, brows furrowed.

Elizabeth appeared again, throwing out her arms and John skidded down the hall, tumbling over the sideboard table. Pushing up to his hands and knees, the girl was there again, flinging John backwards.

"I said no no no! I don't like it in there."

Scrambling backwards, John felt a pull in his side and hissed. _Dammit_, hopefully just a bruise. He pushed himself painfully up to his feet. Definitely a bruise, nothing felt broken. The child glared at him, but as long as he kept walking backwards toward the foyer she didn't shove him again, which confirmed John's hunch about where her remains were hidden and with any luck where he'd find Dean.

He just had to figure out how to get past a super-hyped up ghost of a five-year-old.

John sped to the foyer, dodged around one side of the crescent-spilt staircase and slid to where he'd dropped the duffle before when Dorthea slammed Dean into the banister. He really needed the sledgehammer inside the Impala's trunk, but since the ghosts had them on lockdown, he'd have to make do with what they'd carried in.

Taking out the canister of salt, he poured a fair amount into his palm, hefted the duffel over his shoulder and stormed back into that hallway.

Elizabeth appeared immediately and got a face full of salt. John didn't even break stride, walking through her dispersing smoke as her young screams trailed after him.

Dropping the bag, John pulled out the short tire iron, knocked away the landscape portrait, and struck the forked end into the faded flower wallpaper, pulling a chunk of the plaster down. He peered inside, cursing inwardly at the brick wall behind the wall of plaster.

Elizabeth shrieked behind him and John swung the tire iron around. The child dissolved around the metal rod passing through her head. At least one of these ghosts gave the appropriate response to iron.

He went back to pulling down the thin lathe boards and plaster until he had about a three-foot hole. He rammed the tire iron against the inner wall, savoring the ring of metal on brick. "Dean! I'm coming for you, gonna get you out!" _Please be in there._

John scanned the bricks, looking for any weak spots in the mortar. Not finding any, he jammed the point of the tire iron between two bricks and pushed in. Harder harder harder he dug in, gritting his teeth so forcefully he thought they might crack, John finally felt some give. Just one brick. He only needed to loosen one brick to give him the slack to pull out the rest.

_Argggh_! His bruised side was killing him, but a rugaru would have to eat him whole before he gave up. With enough of a hole in the mortar, John twisted the tire iron around and gouged the forked end between the bricks and pulled. The edge of one brick slid toward him. Choking his hands up on the rod like a bat, John tugged harder. Almost there. Got it! He slid the brick out and tossed it into the hall where it clanked against the hardwood floor.

"Dean! Dean!" He tried to see inside, but it was too dark. "Hold on!" Stooping, John rummaged through the duffel until he found a flashlight, clicked it on and came face to face with Elizabeth, almost invisible in the beam of light. He jabbed the tire iron at her, making her cringe back.

"I'm trying to help you," he growled and she blinked out.

Not wasting another moment on her, John angled the flashlight's beam inside the rectangular hole left by the brick, casting it around the three walls of the small room .The light played over the floor where a small skeleton leaned against the wall curled over itself. Brittle yellowed hair still retained the shape of fat ringlets.

She was alone.

No Dean.

Despair washed over John, clinging to his skin like smoke. He sagged away from the hole, the adrenaline of finding his oldest son in there leaking through his grasp, replaced by a deep penetrating sadness for this murdered child, and anguish over his own.

Tears prickled at his eyes, yet he blinked them back. He couldn't be too late. "Dean!"

As in answer to an unconscious plea, a distant gunshot rang out, followed by the clinking of shattering glass.

**ooo000ooo**

Chest heaving, Sam stared up at the enormous doors. They gaped open like an invitation. He shied backwards. The sense of lurking evil slithered out of that doorway, pawing at Sam with leprous fingers. Whatever was inside watched, waited for him to cross that threshold where he'd be vulnerable. He felt its cravings like a smear of oil staining the air.

Sam shook his head, retreating. He couldn't enter that place. Dad was right to keep him away. But his father and Dean had gone in there, were in there, and the feeling that they were in trouble had only grown stronger the closer he'd gotten to the estate.

Bracing all the young bravado he owned, Sam stepped inside and the doors slammed shut behind him. Jolting, Sam rushed back and yanked on the knobs. The doors were locked tight. Heart racing, Sam turned back to the dark foyer. No backing down now. The only way was forward, find his family, which—his gaze skittered around the space—was going to be difficult. The place was massive.

The foyer on its own was cavernous, the ceiling two-stories high with a crystal chandelier as large as a Volkswagen bug hanging from its center. Several wide hallways led off from the foyer like spokes of a wheel, the two wings in the front, two more on either side and another that ran off between the two sides of the crescent stairways. Looking down one of the halls, Sam could see rooms sandwiched between the halls that most likely had pass-throughs from one corridor to the next.

"Dad?" His whisper bounced disproportionally around the space. "Dean?"

Sam swallowed, straining to hear anything that might give away his brother and father's location. The heavy silence weighed down the air in eerie gloom. Unnerved, Sam headed toward the front corridor on the left, automatically beginning a systematic search. First each corridor and their rooms, then he'd move upstairs. He hoped he found them in one of these close rooms or this was going to take forever and he couldn't shake the sense that his family was running out of time.

As soon as Sam stepped into the hallway, light flickered on within the wall scones, casting weird shadows along the faded wallpaper of dancing satyrs and maidens. He froze, angling his flashlight up. "Okay," the young hunter breathed, passing his beam into the first room. Large dining hall, long table and chairs, very little else. No large pieces of furniture for his dad or Dean to be behind. He moved on to the next room. It was completely empty.

Crossing over to the other side—was the hallway closing in?—the feeling of being watched prickled Sam's skin. Sam pivoted, casting his light out, swinging it back at movement on the wall. Moving closer, Sam peered at the wallpaper, brows pulling together.

Just his imagination. This place was getting to him. Sam resumed his search, not seeing the satyrs leave their positions and follow along the wall after him, leaping across the doorways.

Sam paused, cast the light back the way he had come along the dusty hardwood floor showing between holes of rotting carpet. A plunk-plunk-plunk sounded from the other end and Sam spun back as a little gray ball bounced toward him. Stooping, he caught it in one hand. "Hello?"

Childish laughter spilled around him. A girl darted out of one of the rooms, skirt rucked high over petticoats. She held the hand of a smaller boy as they crossed the hall and dodged inside another room.

Sam ran after them, but found the room empty. He wavered inside the doorway, and scraped his teeth across his bottom lip. He tossed the ball in his hand. "Do you want your ball back?"

Stillness clung to the corners of the room within cobwebs.

Sam shifted back into the hallway.

"Geez!" he exclaimed.

The boy stared up at him, dark hair tousled from play. Small thumbs hooked behind leather suspenders pinned to old-fashion calf-length knickers. Slick blood smudged crisp lines sliced into his white shirt.

_"No, Jamie,"_ the girl's voice streamed along Sam's neck, lifting the ends of his hair like a sigh.

"But I want to play." The child held his palm out to Sam, large eyes expectant.

Sam licked his dry lips. "Have you seen anyone else in here?" He spoke to the ghost as though this was a regular conversation, hoping the younger boy would answer.

The kid nodded and Sam's pulse kicked up in speed. "Where?"

The ghost's gaze lowered to the ball in Sam's hand. "I'm not supposed to go near them. She won't let me."

A bite of fear pulled in Sam's stomach. "Who won't let you?"

Thin shoulders hunched in a shrug just before the kid sprang. Cold fingers passed through Sam's, clutching the ball away as the boy disappeared and the ball flew straight toward the back wall, but instead of bouncing off, the ball vanished inside.

Eyes wide with shock, Sam ran to the end of the hall. The end wall had a long crack running down from a small stained glass window several feet up from the foundation shifting at some point. Prying his fingers inside, he was able to pull some of the plaster away, which revealed bricks behind it, but that wall also had a large crack running along the mortar lines.

He lifted the flashlight to see if there was anything beyond that wall when he was shoved from the side, knocked into an open doorway where he slid across the hardwood on his forearms and hip. Sam barely had time to realize he was in a library of some sort when the older boy with the limp from outside materialized, glaring down at him, nostrils flaring in and out in angry exhalations. Sam pushed off the floor when the room exploded in chaos.

Books flew off the shelves, slamming into Sam, coating the air with dust. Sam curled over himself, taking hit after hit to his back as he crawled toward the doorway when he suddenly remembered the salt, pulled the shaker from the front of his hoodie, and fanned the salt out in a circle and the spirit dispersed in a cloud of mist. Books clattered to the floor around Sam.

"Ow." The young hunter rolled to his side, grimacing at the aches, knowing he was going to be sporting bruises for weeks. He was really starting to not like that ghost, but the fact that the boy didn't want Sam looking behind that wall, made him more determined to do it.

Picking himself off the floor, Sam went back into the hallway, picked his flashlight up and shone it through the crack. It was too narrow, so he tapped the end of the flashlight against one of the loose bricks, pushing it in where it fell with a hollow clunk. Leaning close against the bricks, Sam got his first look inside and immediately recoiled.

The younger boy was inside. Sam recognized him by the cuffs of his knickers pushed up above the skeleton's knee bones that were jammed into the sharp corner of the two far walls. The little gray ball rocked back and forth beside the thin finger bones.

A wave of dizziness washed through Sam and he stepped back, heartsick at what the crazy woman had done. How could anyone wall up an innocent child like that?

**ooo000ooo**

"Dean? Dean, are you in there, son?"

John couldn't be sure, but he thought this was the corridor the gun blast had echoed from. Colored pieces of glass littered the floor at the end of the hall. "Dean!"

"Dad?" His oldest son's voice drifted through the shattered window above.

Relief hit John so hard that the tension in his muscles suddenly released and he had to throw out a hand to catch himself on the wall. _Dean was alive_. _Thank God, thank God._ "Are you hurt?"

John strained to hear the answer, fear amping back up when Dean didn't immediately reply.

"Not bad." Which could indicate a wide range of injuries the young man downplayed.

"Okay. Hang tight. I'm going to get you out."

His hands started shaking uncontrollably, but John swung the tire iron into the wall, breaking through the plaster, throwing his entire body into every hit and pull. In no time he'd punched out a good-sized hole and began working on the mortar between bricks when a cool finger traced the outline of his ear.

"Shit!" Spinning, John slashed the iron straight through Dorthea Truman.

Light eyes glinting, she leaned close into his neck and purred, "They belong to me." Harsh pain like an electrical current sizzled through John's every nerve, dropping him into blackness.

**ooo000ooo**

Sam found another body at the end of another corridor. A small girl with yellow ringlets. The evidence showed he wasn't the first to discover her within the second hidden room . Plaster had been torn off in chunks, a brick punched out. Bootprints disturbed the thick layer of dust across the hardwood floor, the first evidence that his family had been here. Except . . .

Sam crouched, studying the prints. Only one set of boots. His dad's, the patterns scuffed, like he'd been fighting and running, his entire body skidding across the floor from the looks of the swath of disturbance. And where was Dean?

Uneasiness settled like mud in the pit of Sam's belly.

Finding nothing more in this hallway, Sam headed back toward the foyer. Around him, the lights flared to life, then just as abruptly dimmed. The floor started rolling beneath him and swaying like a rope bridge caught in a high wind. This could not be real. Had to be an illusion, but real or not, Sam ran down the hall, sliding into the foyer where the floor suddenly steadied.

High above, the chandelier tinkled. Breathing hard, Sam shifted the flashlight beam over it, jerking it back when the light caught edges in the mounting base affixing the heavy chandelier to the ceiling. He hadn't noticed the elaborate pattern before.

He stepped back to look up at it from a different angle and a shiver skipped down his spine. _Oh my God._ Subtly hidden within the design of whorls and paisleys were sharp lines and corners, outlining a perfectly concealed pentagram.

Sam's gaze snapped down, tracking to the left and right. Each point of the pentagram hidden on the ceiling corresponded in direct alignment with one of the hallways. Five hallways that narrowed and which he now knew ended in walled off triangular rooms. They didn't shoot out like spokes on a wheel. The entire mansion was built in the shape of a pentagram.

His mouth went dry as he stared into the dark hallway between the stairways. That corridor should be the top point of the symbol, except that corridor pointed south. For it to be a true pentagram the top should align due north. This pentagram had been laid purposefully upside down.

The tiny hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood on end. It all clicked into a horrible horrible sense. The goats' heads doorknobs. The markings carved into the chests of the dead children. Each young body secreted away into the pointed room of every hallway.

This was never about the ghost of a mother who suddenly lost it and murdered young children. These had been carefully planned-out ritual killings.

Sam clenched his fists tight, trying to still the sudden shaking in his limbs, an onslaught of new questions dragging at his mind.

What was the ritual for?

And if Dorthea Truman completed it, which appeared to be the case—five children murdered, five points of the pentagram—why was she still here?

**ooo000ooo**

John banged out of unconsciousness like a man shoved into an icy river. His son was screaming beside him. Jerking his eyes open, John found himself folded nearly in two inside the triangular room, his knees pushing on the corpse of a dead girl, Dean stretched out beside her while Dorthea straddled him, her eyes closed in bliss, slender hands hovering above Dean's chest where a soft glow outlined slashes carved into his naked chest .

"Get away from him!" John growled, lunging forward.

Without looking, Dorthea threw a hand outward and John slammed back into the wall, pinned motionless.

Dean's head tossed back and forth, chest heaving in anguish.

"Get off of him, you bitch!" John screamed.

Dorthea's head tilted, fluid, snakelike, as she finally regarded him, almost indulgently. "Only a while longer." Dean's screams stuttered into hoarse panting, his neck arched, head digging against the dirty floor. The glowing lines on his chest flashed brighter, the pattern familiar, purposeful- not just random slices—the patterns niggled at the back of John's desperate thoughts.

John pushed against the bands of air holding him in place. "You sick murdering whore," he raged, trying anything to get her focus away from his son. "Try your hand at a man."

Her lips puckered into a pout, innocence personified. "I like children."

"D-daaad," Dean cried, his young features screwed up with pain.

Dorthea pet his face lovingly. "Shhhh, darling. Everything's going to be all right, I promise."

John strained, helpless to stop the attack on Dean. "Son, just hold on, just hold on." Tears slid down his cheeks.

"Dad!" The shout came from the other side of the wall and chilled John to his bones.

_Sammy._

The woman's head jerked up toward the broken window. The glow from Dean's chest abruptly winked out, leaving him sweat-slickened and breathing raggedly, his eyes wide in startled fear.

A slow smile stretched Dorthea's lips thin. "He's younger." Her slender form evaporated into the air, and suddenly released, John fell forward to his hands.

"Sam!" he shouted. "Sam, run!" He heard Dean screaming the same. Lunging to his feet, John screeched at the window. "Sammmmmy, run!"

John went rigid at the clamor of crashes. Something hit the wall.

"Let go of me!" Sam yelled. "Daadd!"

Then all went brutally quiet.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Sammmmmy, run!"

Trained to react immediately to an order during a hunt, Sam spun away, even knowing he'd be leaving his family .But he'd just found them. The plaster wall already had a good chunk pulled out of it. Their duffel bag lay on the floor, a tire iron beside it like it had been dropped . They were behind that wall.

Screaming for him to run. _Uggggh_! He turned. He'd be back for them. He had to do what they said now so that he could come back.

Except Dorthea Truman blinked into the hallway, blocking his retreat. He recognized her from old black and white photographs from their research, although her hair was down instead of piled on top of her head.

"Well, well." Smiling, she held out a graceful palm.

_Witch. Killer of children_. Sam dodged around her, ducking low, only to be hurled back into the wall.

"Ah-ah-ah." Dorthea waggled a finger, walking toward Sam. Her icy hand grazed his cheek as he darted beneath her arm, but not before she snagged his collar and wrenched him back into a closed door, where he slid to the floor in a heap.

Blinking out, she materialized, leaning over him, her cheek pressed to his, long hair falling over them both like a cloak while her laughter filled every surface of the hall. "We're going to have such a lovely time," she cooed, even as the light on the wall above them sputtered, glinting across the raised silver blade in her hand.

"Let go of me!" Sam shoved against her, screaming out for his dad even as he threw an arm up to shield him from the descending knife and felt himself ripped sideways out of her grasp and whipped down the hall, butt and legs dragging across the floor, stirring clouds of dust. Through the corridor, across the hallway, Sam spilled into another of the wings, and was rolled into an expansive kitchen and hauled up against the side of a gigantic fireplace.

Flames erupted within the cold hearth, sprouting up as high as Sam's shoulders and the boy with the limp flickered into existence, hands around Sam's throat, holding him in place. Angry eyes bore into Sam.

Sam latched onto the boy's wrists, trying to pry his hands away from his throat and kicked out, but the kid held firm and started sliding Sam sideways across the wall toward the fireplace. Heat and smoke wafted over Sam as his shoulder blade dragged across the corner of the hearth, turning the side of his face toward the flames.

"No, no! Please, no!" He struggled in the ghost's solid grasp. "I'm trying to help you! Please, please, no!"

Terror contracted his muscles.

He was pushed closer to the fire when the boy's hands left his throat and latched onto Sam's head and the room, fire, air spun around him.

A horse shrieked. Hooves pawed the air near Sam's face. People screamed around him. He jumped back out of the cobblestone street as the bouncing carriage clattered away.

"Are you all right?" Dorthea rushed past Sam, all satiny skirts and prim flowered bonnet, toward a figure on the ground that a crowd gathered around.

Eyes wide, Sam turned in an uneasy circle, taking in his surroundings. Horse-drawn carriages and buggies, men with vests and cravats and canes and brimmed hats strolled the sidewalks with women in long silky finery as though Sam fell through a rabbit hole in time.

_Not a hole in time. A memory_, a young male voice drizzled in Sam's ear. His gaze snapped back to Dorthea who knelt in the street beside the boy who moments ago had been pushing Sam into the fire. All doting concern, Dorthea helped the boy stand and guided him, limping, into her own waiting carriage. "We're going to have such a lovely time." She walked past Sam, seemingly unaware of his presence as though he was the ghost here, though the boy turned back and met Sam's gaze.

The world blurred, tilted. Sam's balance wavered and he threw out his hands, falling onto a beautifully laid hardwood floor. Blinking, he got to his feet, finding himself in a sun-dappled room, standing next to a four-poster bed. Dorthea sat on its edge, running her fingers through the other boy's dark hair.

"I'm going to take care of you, darling. Forever and ever."

The boy's feelings flooded into Sam. Fragmented thoughts struck him like punches. _A home. Mother. Orphan. Safe now. No more hiding. Visions._

Sam's stomach tightened. "You're psychic?"

The kid's eyes slanted to Sam and more emotions poured through him. The boy was so happy, content, unbelieving of his good fortune until without warning, screams erupted in his head, the four other murdered children crying out from four concealed points of the mansion. Staring up at Dorthea in horror, the psychic kid plucked all the gruesome details from her head without her knowing it.

All was laid bare before him. The ritual, her plans, the purpose behind it all. It flowed from the witch to the kid and was now slamming into Sam in a furious rush. He saw and felt everything.

The ritual would allow Dorthea to travel the ether, the _in between_ dimension, the blood offering of the innocents entitling her to a demonic power known only to the likes of Cain and Ramses and Rasputin before her, brought back to the mortal world where she'd be unstoppable, a queen, wielding the power of a thousand demons.

But the psychic kid learned something else as well. He stole words buried deep, phrases locked away in the witch's mind and when Dorthea's blade sank into his heart, he cried out, Latin spilling from his lips as his life's blood spilled from his body.

_It all came down to blood. _

_Unable to steal what is freely sacrificed_.

As the witch's ritual completed, transforming her body to walk within the ether, the psychic boy wove a spell with the unfamiliar Latin taken from her own mind and bound the woman to the _in-between, _trapping her within the boundaries of the giant pentagram where all the power she'd gone into the realm to gain couldn't release her.

The psychic's emotions swirled through Sam, coming rapidly, too much too much, slamming and biting with stiletto teeth. He shied away from them. Vision graying, Sam sank to the floor, hands clasped around his head to stop the forced memories, keep them out while the world rocked hard around him. He barely grasped when it stopped, the lull of emotions subsided, and he realized the rocking motion was him, pitching forward and back on his knees and head.

Light sheared through his eyelids. He peeked sideways at the fire, which abruptly shrank and piffed out to ashes in a cold dead hearth.

Sam was alone in the large kitchen. The psychic boy was gone.

**ooo000ooo**

Pressing a hand to his chest, Dean dragged himself up to lean against the wall. Sam shouldn't be anywhere near this hunt. Sam was supposed to be back at the motel safe.

His dad prowled around the walls, looking for any loose bricks, sometimes slamming his fist against one. John stood back and dragged his hands through his hair.

"Dad." Dean cringed at the agony coating his vocal cords. "She's going to kill Sam."

"No." John crouched beside Dean, carefully avoiding stepping on the dead boy's bones. "No she's not." A grimace of pure terror enveloped John's features before he was able to shutter the emotion away. It frightened Dean to his core. "How the hell did he get here?"

Dean shifted, grimacing at the pull in his wounds. "You know Sammy. He's resourceful. Probably got worried and hotwired a car."

Nodding, John shrugged out of his blue button down shirt, stripping down to his T-shirt. "How bad it is?" He glanced toward Dean's wounds as he guided the younger man's arms through the long sleeves.

_Hurts like a mother_. "They're not that deep. Not even bleeding anymore."

John started buttoning the shirt over the cuts. "Could you feel . . ." Dean stared into his dad's face. The shadows gave him a haggard appearance. "Do you know what she was doing to you?"

The question startled Dean. He was only aware of how bad it hurt. "It just . . ." He shook his head. "Felt weird, like I was getting weaker, draining me."

John's lips pressed together hard. "I'm going to get you out of here. We're going to find Sam."

"I know you will." Except he didn't. He'd already checked every brick as well. There were no loose joints and they didn't have any tools to break through.

Dean lifted his gaze and jolted. "Dad!"

A dark-haired boy about Sam's age stood in the corner, his dirty shirt wet with blood.

John twisted around at his exclamation, whipping up to stand between Dean and the ghost, but the kid lifted his palms and then turned to the wall and placed one hand low on a brick. He looked back as though making sure they watched him. Then he positioned his other hand on a brick higher up and pushed, dissolving through the wall.

"The hell was that?" Dean grimaced.

"I don't know." Brows creased, John studied the wall, putting his hands in the exact spots the kid had. "Press on one brick and nothing happens. But press on two . . . the right ones, and . . ." He pushed and the bricks scraped in. Grinning, John looked back at Dean. "Pressure points, like a Chinese puzzle box." He shoved harder and the entire wall swung outward. "Let's go get your brother."

**ooo000ooo**

A deep shuddering moan clawed past Sam's throat. He pushed up on his hands to get off of the dirty kitchen floor. He understood what had happened now, the ritual, all of it, but he didn't know what to do about it. The psychic had sealed the witch in the other realm. Her physical form at any rate, though it appeared she could cross over and still murder children. Similar to a spirit, but not a spirit. She wasn't dead. Dorthea was just somehow stuck between worlds.

And if his father and Dean burned her bones they might inadvertently unseal the psychic kid's spell. Except . . . there wasn't a corpse to salt and burn. Dorthea Truman never actually died, her body slipped into the ether with her soul—if she had a soul. And since she wasn't technically a ghost, salt and iron wouldn't work on her.

In fact, Sam realized, there wasn't any way to get rid of her. She couldn't be killed in the ether, which was a huge problem because even though she was bound to this house—to the pentagram—she still killed any child who wandered in here.

Burning the mansion wasn't an option either. It was too massive. Firefighters would be on scene before half a wing could be destroyed.

Sam sat up, his mind sifting through a million horrible realizations. Dorthea didn't know her ritual had actually worked, that she completed it. She didn't know the last boy was a psychic who turned her spell against her. That's why she kept carving sigils into any kid on the property and hiding them away in the secret rooms. She was still trying to finish the ritual.

What would happen if Dean and Dad salt and burned the bodies of the murdered children? If the psychic kid's spirit was put to rest, that might be enough to unravel the spell he welded over Dorthea. Then the witch would be released from the pentagram, but she'd be supercharged with the power source of a thousand demons at her beck and call.

Sam scrambled to his feet. He had to warn his father.

He made it to the door, reached for the handle when it jerked open.

Sam yelped.

Dorthea stood in the doorway and latched onto the young hunter's upper arms. "I'm very disappointed. Never run from Mother. You could have been killed." Laughter chimed around them like a melody.

Fear slithered across Sam's skin, burrowing inside. Sam drew back, trying to wrench out of her grasp, but she was too strong. She floated backwards, gaze steady on him, the hem of her gown sweeping through dust. Sam's sneakers squeaked across the hardwood.

Dorthea stopped, delicate brows bunching together as she peered intently into his face. "You're like the other boy."

Hell did that mean? "Let me go."

She frowned sadly, lifted a hand away from Sam's arm to feather her fingers across the bridge of his nose. "Never ever. You'll always be mine."

Pivoting on her heel, she dragged Sam by his arm. Skidding and backpedaling across the floor, Sam grabbed onto the door jamb, trying to leverage himself back, but Dorthea merely sighed and jerked him off, dragging him through the length of the corridor, across the foyer.

He was tired of getting hauled off all over this mansion.

"Let go! Let go!" In his struggle, her palm slipped down the length of his arm to catch at his wrist. With his other hand, Sam pushed at her fingers, fighting to yank free from her iron-clad grip. At the bottom of one of the curving staircases, Sam grabbed hold of the banister, sucking in a breath to call out for his dad at the top of his lungs, but anticipating it, Dorthea clamped a hand over his mouth, cutting short his cry. Her arms wrapped around him like steel bands, lifting him back against her.

"Shhhhh, sweetheart. Just you and me now. No one else." Dorthea's icy breath puffed the ends of Sam's hair, tickling his neck. She carried him up the stairway as though he weighed nothing, even while he flailed against her, his screams and tears muffled beneath her wintry hand. He tried to hook his dragging heels against each step, losing a shoe that _thumped-thumped-thumped_ down the staircase.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

John hauled Dean through the corridor, staring ahead into the shadows, but saw nothing moving within.

"Dad, you got to leave me here. I'm slowing you down."Dean was panting hard, half-curled over his side. The pain and the blood loss made his steps falter. "You have to find Sammy."

"Splitting up is not a good idea. You're too vulnerable right now."

"I'm less vulnerable than Sam." Dean pushed away to stand on his own, though he reached out to the wall for support. "Dad, the bitch has Sam. She . . . he's just a kid." His features tightened in pain. Or fear. "You'll get to him faster on your own. Please, Dad."

John knew Dean was right. The thought of his youngest son in that demented ghost's hands lodged a knot so hard in his throat he thought he would choke on it. But Dorthea Truman had already been at Dean, could easily get to him again and John Winchester wasn't about to leave either of his sons unprotected in this house. He didn't care how good of a hunter Dean had become. He was still his child and he was hurt and they didn't have a weapon on them capable of taking out this particular ghost.

Damn bitch. Didn't know how to react properly to salt or iron. The hell was going on? "We'll find Sam together. Even if I have to carry you."

Dean scowled, must have noted John's resolve. "Fine." He pushed off the wall and started walking as straight as he could, though the stiffness in his movement was not lost on John. Stubborn ass.

John jogged to catch up before Dean entered the foyer ahead of him. They peered into the darkness, looking for movement, listening for sound before deciding it was safe. Walking out to the middle of the grand entranceway, John turned a tight circle, letting his gaze roam into the muted hallways, searching for anything that might give them a clue of which way to go to find his son.

His pulse vibrated heavily through his veins. The ghost had Sam for too long. It was too quiet. _Come on, Sammy, give me something._

"Dad." Dean hobbled over to the closest staircase, pain obviously forgotten, until he lifted one leg up to climb the first step. His young features screwed up and Dean grabbed out at the banister, white-knuckling it so hard he shook.

John ran to him. "You okay?"

Dean nodded, breathing through it. "Look," he grit out.

John followed Dean's line of sight up the steps and saw it. Sam's sneaker. Half-way up, lying on its side, laces dangling down to the next step.

"Go!" Dean barked. "Or are you going to carry me up?"

John's lips pursed together. In this line of work, a hunter had to be able to make quick decisions. He didn't like this, not at all, but knew what he had to do, even though it meant leaving one son to go save the other.

He adjusted his handgun in the inside pocket of his jacket, reassured by the solid weight of it there, even though it was useless against spirits. "Be here when I get back."

Dean nodded heavily. "Just bring Sammy back with you."

**ooo000ooo**

Dorthea flung Sam onto the four-poster bed. He immediate jerked upward only to have the old moth-bitten quilt fly over him, twisting him around like it had a life of its own, wrapping Sam up tight like a mummy.

"Da-!" he screamed and the end of the quilt shoved into his mouth, clamping off his shout. Struggling, he gagged against the dusty material, on the edge of panic because he couldn't seem to get a breath deep enough in his chest. Everything grew blurry behind a smear of tears.

Great. He'd disobeyed his dad to come save them and managed to get trussed up, crying like a baby about to be murdered by a psychopath witch who didn't even know she'd already succeeded in casting her stupid evil ritual. Worse, he wouldn't be able to warn his father that Dorthea wasn't a ghost but a witch because he'd be dead.

Tears wet his cheeks and Sam kept screaming, dampened cries muffled beneath the quilt gag.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dorthea caressed Sam's cheeks. Her fingers were like icicles, trailing wetness over his skin.

He tossed his head side to side to get away from her touch.

Frown lines formed brackets at the sides of her mouth. "My darling, don't worry. It will all be over soon."

Sam screamed around the dirty fabric filling his mouth, his cries as voiceless as if he shouted underwater.

"It's going to be all right." Suddenly a silver-bladed knife appeared in her hand.

"Mmmmmfph! Ddddddghhhhh—mmmmh!" Bound tight, Sam thrashed on the mattress like a worm, his heart kicking violently against his ribcage. He couldn't pull in any air. His chest expanded, but he couldn't draw anything back into his lungs!

_Dean! Dad!_ He just wanted them to burst in and save him, wanted them to yell and tell him how stupid he was to come anywhere near this place. He didn't care. He just wanted them. He didn't want to die.

The tip of the blade hovered above a faded blue flower stitched onto the quilt right above his heart. Sam squeezed his eyes tight.

**ooo000ooo**

At the top of the staircase, John paused at the landing to glance down at Dean. The young man had a death grip on the curve of the banister as though it was the only thing holding him up. It most likely was. _That_ and the teen's tenacity. Half-closed doors lined an open circular landing that followed the curve of the two staircases. Shredded streamers of the faded flower and vines wallpaper curled downward toward the rose-patterned carpet. Everything on the second floor was quiet and dark.

John entered the closest room to his right and concluded from the gigantic dark wood bed and masculine furnishings, that this was the master bedroom. If the structure kept with the tradition of the era the estate was built in, the rest of the family's rooms—the wife's quarters and a nursery and children's room would all be in this same wing, possibly connected, with guest rooms on the other side of the upstairs living quarters.

Crossing through the musty room, John yanked open one of the far doors, finding a large marble in-laid wash room with a Victorian claw-foot bathtub taking center stage. Behind the second door, John found the Mistress of the House's adjoining quarters.

Dorthea Truman's own personal sanctuary. John took in the layers of dust on the frilly bed. He picked up an ornate silver brush from the feminine dressing table, running a thumb across the stiff bristles. Fat little cherubs were frozen in flight around looping vines and roses within the faded wallpaper. Keeping with the cherub theme, small little sculptures of pudgy faces were carved within the decorative wall borders near the ceiling line. What kind of secrets rested in the shadows here? What would push a woman who seemingly had everything over a chasm so deep she took the lives of her own children?

And what had her ghost done with his son?

"_EGO peto vox per aer ingravesco."_ Soft voices murmured around John's body like sighing leaves lifting and falling in a scattering breeze. _"Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer."_

The words tickled his senses like a whispered prayer. Latin. "_Unus per vox peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram eo in aer_." John leaned forward on the balls of his feet, concentrating on the words, the meaning. _Travel within the ether . . ._

A hard cold stone plunged to the bottom of John's stomach. Not a prayer. A spell—a ritual. Something moved along the wall. John's gaze snapped up. The wallpaper, the cupids . . . stirred. Every one of their head's turned to stare at the molded plaster of a lamb's face in the center of a wall.

John gasped. Not a lamb's face. A goat's head . . .

_"Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer." _The murmurs picked up again, floating all around him, gaining speed with the rhythm of a horrible chant.

A grating sound raised the tiny hairs at the back of John's neck. Molded plaster eyelids blinked. The cupids near the ceiling stared down at him, lips moving. "_in quinque cuspis per is cruor constrictum vos . . ." _They sang of blood. Sacrifice. Binding_. _

Every vertebrae in John's spine stiffened. He should have known all along. Should have seen the clues all around him. They had never been dealing with just a ghost. Dorthea Truman was a witch and from what he could make out of the Latin, she had performed a blood ritual that cast her into another dimension.

But what that had to do with her being here in this mansion now and murdering children, John couldn't guess. Nor did he have the time to figure it out . . . because ghost or witch or something in between, the bitch was going to pay for going after John's sons . . .

**ooo000ooo**

The knife tip slid into the heavy quilt. Sam's terror was so thick it stilled everything inside him.

A little child giggled. _"Maid was in the garden . . . hanging out the clothes."_

Sam's eyes snapped open. The knife lifted a fraction. Dorthea no longer looked down at him, but across the bed where a very young girl blinked innocently up at her and curtsied, making fat blond ringlets bounce around a pointy little chin.

_"Play with me, Momma."_ The girl lifted her small palm and the knife flew from the witch's hand and into the child's. Grinning impishly the little kid spun on her heel and dashed out the door. Delighted laughter trailed after her like fluttering hair ribbons.

Scowling, Dorthea planted her fists on the sides of her thin waist. "Elizabeth, you come back with that right now. Momma needs it."

_"When dow-nn came a black—ack bird . . ."_ the melody rippled along the walls like fog.

"I am not playing." Dorthea's features twisted in fury, the pretty masquerade slipping, giving Sam a true glimpse of the blackened soul beneath. "Elizabeth!" Glaring, the witch stormed forward, vanishing into the air, leaving behind curling streamers of smoke.

"Demmmnnnn!" Sam flailed on the bed, jolting when a teenage girl appeared, kneeling at his side and shoved at him.

Sam rolled off the mattress, falling to the worn rug in a tangle of loosened quilt, coughing. His teeth felt like they'd been ripped from his gums when the quilt was dislodged, but moving his jaw proved otherwise.

"Come on!" The girl grabbed Sam's hand and ripped him off the floor, pulling him out of the room with her. They ran through a large marbled washroom and into an adjoining bedroom where she slid across the wood floor on the knees of her jeans as she ducked under the large bed, dragging Sam down with her.

Huddled on his stomach, Sam strained to see the girl through the darkness, her cold hand clasped tightly in his.

"Are . . . are you Missy?" he whispered the name of the girl who had disappeared earlier this month after being dared to go inside the abandoned estate. It was her disappearance that first attracted the attention of his dad to a possible hunt.

"Shhhhhh."

_"Where have you gone, my little darling_?" Dorthea's voice cascaded along the shadows like honey and Sam instinctively knew she was calling out for him. Shuddering uncontrollably, his hand tightened within the spirit's_."Hide and seek, is it? Come out come out wherever you are."_

A large armoire in the room started shaking, carved lion paw legs rattling, shimmying scratches on the floor. Above them the bed frame shook. Sam crawled backwards, ready to bolt out the other side. Cold fingers pressed against his lips and in the gloom, the teen gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

Dorthea appeared near the doorway. Peering out, Sam could see the bottom part of her gown. The hem flowed around her pointy boots as though caught in a breeze. He also had a perfect view of the knife she dangled between long fingers down by the side of her leg.

Sam shivered in fear. Stupid stupid hiding place. Everybody always looks under beds. The rattling bed frame inched across the floor.

Heeled boots clicked on hardwood as Dorthea walked toward the bed. Curling ends of the witch's long hair swept along the floor as she bent over. Sam swallowed around the seizing muscles of his swollen throat.

A small gray ball rolled beneath the bed in front of Sam's fingertips.

_"Momma momma momma, play with us,"_ a young boy' s disembodied voice squealed with delight. Small feet pattered across the floor.

Dorthea's skirts swirled around her ankles as she straightened.

_"Play with us play with us."_The small blond girl joined in. _"Please Momma please."_

Sam heard more footsteps run across the room, though he couldn't see anything besides the bottom portion of Dorthea's flowing dress.

Suddenly several childish voices rang out in laughter and giggles, curling within the darkness. The laughter seemed to be all around him, moving about the room. The tread of small children clattered on wood.

Hands circled around Sam's ankles, jerking him back out from under the bed. His cry was cut off by a pair of hands covering his mouth. Another teenage boy in a Motley Crew T-shirt warned him with his eyes until Sam nodded his understanding.

Flickering, the boy vanished and reappeared, sitting back on his folded knees. Eyeing each other for only a moment, they both turned to peek over the bed.

The spirits of the four nineteenth century children were skipping around in a circle, twirling and dancing with Dorthea in the midst of them. The witch kept moving to step away, but the children laughed, holding hands in a chain, almost as though they were holding the woman inside.

_"Ring around the rosies . . . pocketful of posies . . . ashes, ashes . . ."_

Dorthea's eyes snapped up, met Sam's across the bed. The corners of her lips turned up in a smile. "There you are."

Flinging out her arms, the dancing children dispersed like water through Dorthea Truman's hands. Eyes glittering in the half-light, she moved forward, her slender frame passing right through the bed. The tip of the knife loosely held snagged across the quilt.

The boy shoved at Sam, spurring him toward the far door. Smiling, Dorthea reached for him, the pads of her fingers grazing Sam's shoulder and the psychic boy suddenly appeared, standing between them.

The last thing Sam saw before he was jostled out of the room was the psychic's arm thrown up to shield himself and Dorthea's raging, "You can't keep him from me!"

**ooo000ooo**

Forehead pressed firmly on the iron-wrought banister, Dean held on, trying not to tip over. Sure, the pain that flowered across his chest from any kind of pulling movement was nowhere near pleasant, but he'd dealt with worse before. It was the dizziness that was doing him in. Whether from blood loss or from the earlier header smack in this very banister he now gripped in a sweaty-palmed death-hold, who could say?

All he knew was that he was standing here useless when that reeking skank of a ghost was doing who knows what to his younger sibling.

Dean climbed to the next step, gritting his teeth against the sudden wave of nausea while his shaking fist curled more tightly around the railing. One stupid flight of stairs was not going to kick Dean Winchester's ass. Even if those steps were heaving up and down beneath his boots.

Footsteps thumped across the floor. Dean stilled, less than midway up the staircase. He tried to see anyone on the dark landing above. Nothing stirred. The urge to call out for his brother and father settled like a loud taunt on his shoulder, insistent with urgency, but he knew the danger of throwing attention towards them.

More footfalls ran across the floors, accompanied with the echo of children laughing, playing. A small voice sang out, _"We all fall down."_ Chills brushed along Dean's skin.

Something heavy crashed. More running steps. What was going on up there?

Pushing through the wooziness, Dean pulled himself up those steps, his muscles and the wounds on his chest thrumming in pain. Didn't matter.

By the time he reached the landing, everything was quiet. Sweaty and lightheaded, Dean leaned over, hands on his knees, waiting for the floor to stop swaying.

"Dean?"

He jerked his head up at his dad's voice. Crud_, too fast_. His vision seesawed across his dad's legs who was exiting one of the rooms and walking toward him.

"Thought I told you to stay downstairs." John's palm clamped onto Dean's arm, steadying him.

Dean pinched his forehead together, hoping for some relief. Squinting, the room finally righted itself. "Heard a racket up here." Which was enough of an explanation.

His dad's forehead lowered into a frown.

"You didn't hear anything?" Dean's fear notched up at the slight shake of his dad's head.

"It was loud, Dad. Things falling. Kids running all over the place."

John's hand slipped away. Dean could tell by his expression his dad was troubled. John had found something bad. Dean's stomach clenched. _Please, no_, don't let it be evidence that Sam had been hurt. Or worse."Dad, what is it?"

The Adam's apple in his father's throat bounced. Hard. "Dean. We're dealing with witchcraft."

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_"Olly olly oxen free."_

Sam trembled, tucked tightly within a little alcove behind a large vase. The tall plant had long since turned to dried-out brittle leaves blooming with dusty cobwebs. The two recently deceased kids had crammed Sam in between them, knees drawn up as they watched Dorthea drift through the room, lifting couch pillows and making the heavy curtains plume inward with a flick of her finger.

She was going to find him any second. He knew it. She already found him twice and both times the children intervened, running behind her back, stomping, making noise, pretending to be him, taking her attention away long enough that the boy and girl could race him out of there and shove him into a new hiding place.

They were playing a deadly game of hide and seek to save him and Sam didn't understand why or how long they could possibly keep it up. Anytime one of the kids got near, the witch dispersed them with a toss of her hand as easily as if she flung salt at them.

The youngest girl skipped past Dorthea, tugging at her mother's skirt, making her turn away from Sam's hiding place, then streaked away in a flutter of air.

Dorthea's hands cinched up into fists. "Enough of this, children. Your game's at an end. Momma's tired." She smiled sweetly and Sam cringed farther back into the corner, shaking in terror.

"I know you're near, child. You can't keep this up for—"Her head tilted, eyes flicking toward the doorway as though listening to something in another room. Without another word, she faded away.

**ooo000ooo**

They were close to Sam. John could feel it. Something floated within the shadows, making the air shiver. Walking along the curved hall, John swiftly searched every room while Dean kept guard near the doorways. Nothing was going to get past them. Sam was up here and they were going to find him.

He rested his hand at the back of Dean's neck, a squeeze of reassurance as they moved toward the next door. Dean nodded, in sync, even though the pinch at his eyes betrayed how hard the young hunter was fighting just to stay on his feet. John wanted to tell him to hang back, take it easy, but he also desperately wanted Dean within eyesight. He wanted both his sons within eyesight.

They came to the next door. John gave the nod that he was going in and stepped inside to make a quick run through. _Please be in here, Sammy. Let me know where you are._ John scanned the room, some kind of sitting room with dust-coated parlor sofas, small tables and lots of ancient dead plants in large vases. He turned to go, making brief eye contact with Dean in the hall, then stopped, turned back, his gaze roaming over the pillows scattered across the floor—or more specifically at the disturbance in the dust the pillows had made.

His eyes tracked slowly around the room, trying to spot any crannie or hole or misplaced line in the wainscoting that would indicate another hidden room the witch could have secreted a fourteen-year-old boy away in. His heart beat rapidly, sensing he was close to finding him.

He stared at one of the large planters, peering into the black corner behind the thick cobwebs, took a step . . .

Dean shouted. A gun shot barked out. John spun and saw Dean's legs flying backwards out of sight from the doorway, followed by the witch crossing fluidly after him.

Pulling his own gun because that's all he had, John barreled into the hallway as the witch bent over Dean. John shot three rounds into her back before she even bothered to look over her shoulder at him.

Arching delicate brows, she turned, shaking her head in disapproval as though he was a wayward child.

He shot her again.

To which she pushed out a palm and John flew into the wall, sliding down to the floor as his gun skidded across the rose-patterned carpet.

"Stay put," she whispered and thorny vines lashed out of the crumbling wallpaper, snaking around John's arms, his chest and pulling him back. He yanked, he pulled, and found no give.

Laughing, Dorthea turned away, back toward Dean who was struggling up to his hands and knees.

"Get away from him!" John screamed. The wallpaper vines forced him harder against the wall, constricting his airflow. They looped across his mouth, gagging his voice.

Like he weighed nothing, Dorthea flipped Dean onto his back. Kneeling, her hands sank deep into his hair. "Oh don't be afraid. Mother will take care of everything."

"You're not my mother!" Dean's tone held so much venom even John stilled momentarily in his struggles.

The witch's lips twitched. "I'm not without mercy, child. I only need one." She leaned in close to Dean's lips. "Tell me where the little one is and I'll let you go."

A gasp rose to John's throat. He watched every muscle in Dean's body go lax as he made the same connection. The bitch didn't know where Sammy was. She didn't have him. John heaved in a relieved breath.

"I prefer your brother, much younger, much more innocent, more power to pour into my ritual," Dorthea cooed. "But you'll do."

Dean turned his face to the side, smugly ignoring the witch. She was insane if she thought either of his boys would ever make a bargain like that. Dorthea stared down at Dean, apparently coming to the same conclusion as she shifted back, calling out to the air instead.

"Boy," her voice hummed, whisper-soft, but filling every space. "Playtime is over. Come out now. I have your brother. He wants to play."

John flinched. _No, Sammy, don't_. He shouted around the paper vines, flexed his arms.

Dorthea flicked out her knife, pressed it to Dean's flat stomach. John's soundless roar echoed in his ears.

**ooo000ooo**

Sam tried to lunge out from behind the plant, but the two kids pushed him back, both clamping frigid hands over his mouth to keep Dorthea from hearing his screams.

_She has Dean! She has Dean!_

The witch's voice caressed his cheek as though she were right next to him. _"My blade is pressed to his flesh."_ He felt Dorthea's resigned sigh like fingers tickling across his skin.

Sam shoved against the kids and they shoved him right back. Much stronger than him, they held Sam in place easily with hands on his shoulders.

_No, no_, he screamed against their palms covering his lips. _It's my brother. Let me go. I have to go. Pleaaaase! Dean!_ Chest rising hard, Sam strained against them. They didn't understand. He couldn't let the witch kill Dean.

_"I'll make you a promise, sweetheart. Come out and I'll spare your brother. I only need one of you."_

Of course she was lying. Sam knew that, but he also couldn't take a chance, not with Dean.

Sam bit into the closest hand pressed to his lips, but being a ghost, the girl only shook her head.

"Be quiet," she hissed. "We're trying to save you."

_Then save my brother_, he wanted to scream at her, tears streaming between their cold hands and his cheeks. He pushed against them, wiggling his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie, fingers scrabbling onto his little shaker of salt.

**ooo000ooo**

Dean glared up at the witch. If she thought she was going to use him to lure Sam out, she had another thing coming. He was going to end her. Just as soon as he could figure out how to get her to take away that knife from his stomach.

He was barely breathing, taking tight shallow breaths to keep his stomach from raising any closer to the tip of that blade. If he could only push her away from him, but damn the woman was strong. And stupid. She kept looking up like she expected Sammy to materialize out of thin air and let her just start carving on him. Like Dean or their dad would ever let that happen.

They just had to figure something out. Dean's vision flashed gray, a bout of dizziness washing through him. He swallowed, pushing it down. Not now. He had to stay coherent. Tingles shot up his limbs. Dean blinked, a weird feeling of lightheadedness swamping him.

Dorthea's lips pursed together. "I'm very sorry. I guess your brother isn't coming."

Dean felt the icy blade touch his skin, saw his dad's legs kicking on the floor, his body arching away from the weird-ass vines holding him, and heard his brother scream, "No! Don't!"

**TBC**


	7. Final

**Chapter Seven**

Sam's palm still cupped the salt shaker. It had gotten him free of the ghosts holding him back, but he knew it wouldn't work against Dorthea. She wasn't a ghost. He didn't know anything that could reach beyond the dimension she was part of and kill her.

It really wasn't fair that she could reach through and kill them. Except for trapping her within the boundaries of the large pentagram, the psychic kid's binding spell was worthless.

Sam stood halfway out of one of the rooms, holding onto the doorjamb. He couldn't control the tremors coursing through his body, was barely managing to stay upright.

His dad sat up against the wall, nearly his entire body encircled with painted vines that seemed to have crawled right off of the wallpaper. His father bucked, screaming behind paper vines.

Dean was on the floor, the witch kneeling over him, the sharp point of her knife grazing his brother's stomach. She was going to stab Dean!

Without thinking, Sam stepped away from the doorway.

Straining with rage and fear, John snapped the vine on one of his wrists free. Sam paused, hopeful. His dad could save Dean. He always took care of everything.

Smiling in triumph, Dorthea extended her hand out to Sam in invitation. "It won't hurt, I promise, darling. I won't make you suffer."

"Sammy, get out of here!" Dean screeched.

Sam drew back. He could run. The ghost kids would help him hide again.

Dorthea smoothed a hand along Dean's rib. "I only need one."

Dean latched onto her other wrist, and started forcing the blade back down. "Then you kill me! You kill me!"

The air seemed to suck right out of the room, a breath frozen in time. Sam's heart wrenched so tight in his chest he thought it might splinter in two. Maybe it did.

"Nooooo!" Sam stepped fully into the hallway. The blood coating Dean's chest made him want to vomit.

_It all came down to blood. _

_Unable to steal what is freely sacrificed._

The psychic boy used his own blood to weave a spell and bind the woman to the _in-between. _

Sam took another step closer and Dorthea disappeared from Dean's side to reappear in front of Sam. He flinched.

The coolness of her blade touched his stomach, chilling him to the bone. He was shaking so hard, he wasn't sure if it was her pushing in, piercing through the first pinch into his skin or if he had inadvertently pushed outward. His face tilted up toward hers, eyes large and wet, feeling the icy prickle as the knife slid into his body.

**ooo000ooo**

John rammed his elbows against the wall, over and over, cracking plaster and giving himself a little leeway before the vines tightened their hold.

Sam gasped, just a soft little intake of air and John's head wrenched up, seeing the witch's blade slide hilt-deep into the side of his youngest's abdomen. Every muscle in the teen's body seemed to clamp rigidly around the intruding piece of metal and a fist punched through John Winchester's world.

"Sammy!" Dean bawled, crawling weakly across the floor.

Shuddering, Sam's young body went completely lax. Dorthea pulled him toward her, stroking his hair.

"Shhhhh, there, there, sweetheart. Now that wasn't so bad. Momma has you." She yanked the blade out and Sam wobbled. It shone glossy red.

Sam slipped downward. His cheek pressed into the witch's arm. Around them, several children appeared, watching somberly from the shadows.

John's chest heaved up and down, his vision smeared behind tears that he blinked away because he had to see, had to let Sam know he was there, that he wasn't alone.

Sam's eyes slipped lower, his forehead scrunched as though he fought it. John willed him to fight, even as he struggled against his bindings. His free hand clawed at the vines on his other arm, tore them from his mouth.

"Sammy," he cried. "Hang on. Daddy's here, I'm coming. You hang on."

Dorthea kissed Sam's temple. Blood soaked into Sam's jeans.

Clenching his face tight, Sam started whispering. "_Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago . . ."_

John froze.

The witch cradled Sam close, oblivious to the boy's spell casting. Or too arrogant to worry.

_"Ago in q-quinque cuspis . . ."_ Sam shuddered in a great gasp. Fighting through it, Sam pushed the words out. _"Per is cruor ut solvo vos . . ."_

John squinted. Sam said the words wrong. It was different. John's pulse roared to life, understanding dawning. Sam changed a word, just one little word that changed the phrase's entire meaning. He wasn't binding Dorthea to the other world. He was letting her go.

John didn't understand why Sam would do such a thing, but he trusted his child. If there was an answer to be found, Sam would ferret it out.

Except Sam's words were slurring. His hands hung limply. The witch was the only thing holding him upright. _"Is cruor ut . . . solvo . . ."_ Sam's eyes fell closed.

John squeezed his own eyes closed, weeping, and screamed out what his son couldn't finish, _"Per is cruor ut solvo vos. EGO signum super vestry caput capitis! _I seal upon you! Be free and damn you straight to hell!"

Dorthea gasped, her slender body arched and rolled like a cat taking a stretch. Light and energy crackled around her. She let go of Sam and he dropped to the floor in a boneless heap. Of no more consequence to the witch, Dorthea stepped over him, heading to the stairs.

Her body pulsed with fluid light. It poured from her fingertips. John could feel vibrations coming off her in waves, stronger than anything he'd ever come up against before. With that kind of power, she was formidable. Eyes glittering with delight, Dorthea stretched her arms wide . . . and her head rocked back, then snapped upright again, shock pinching her features—a bullet hole darkening her forehead.

From the floor, Dean held John's gun still pointed at the witch, steaming, its muzzle following her down as she dropped. "Welcome back to the real world, bitch, because my little brother just made you mortal."

The witch's body began shaking, slender arms flopping, spikes of light tore through her flesh, spearing outward.

With the witch's hold gone, John tore free of the vines, leaving them fluttering to the floor like the paper they were. He scrambled across the carpet to Sam.

Dean crawled over just as quickly. "Dad, is he . . .?"

"Get down!" John shoved his other arm over Dean, trying to shield both his children as the building wave of power roared into them, shrieking and wailing with the force of thousands of demons unleashed. The pressure buffeted into John, sliding him on his knees across the floor, but he kept his arms anchored around his boys, bringing them with him.

The thundering energy flew across the ceiling, down into the foyer, shooting out in a million tendrils of zipping light that ducked and wove into the five corridors. Peeking between the iron banister, John saw the pentagram now, grotesquely lit up above the chandelier just before the crystal rocked, pulled from its mooring and fell, shattering on the floor below.

Abruptly the mansion went still.

Dean shoved out from under John's arm. "Sammy! Is he?"

John's gaze snapped to Dean. He pushed off his youngest child. John's fingers flew to Sam's neck. Dean's to Sam's wrist, though there was no need. Sam's chest lifted and fell in shallow breaths. But, _God_, there was so much blood. "We've got to get him out of here." John tore off his own T-shirt, wadded it up to press against the wound in the boy's abdomen. Sam didn't stir from the pressure.

"Is it okay to move him?"

John glanced at Dorthea's spent body, then the children quietly watching. He shook his head. "Too much to explain. We'll call from the road. Get him the quickest help possible."

"Yeah, okay." Dean didn't take his eyes off his brother. "He's going to be okay, right?"

John swallowed around the scream clawing its way up his throat and nodded tightly. Truth was, he didn't know. That blade had gone in all the way. No telling what damage had been done and the blood loss was significant. And Sam was so still, his young face already too pale.

"Sammy." John pushed down on the T-shirt, frightened at how more blood soaked up into it.

"Sam!" Dean tried a less gentle approach. "Sam, you wake up."

No response and John wanted to punch the floor. They were losing him and John was helpless to stop it. He was losing his son.

"Dad, make him wake up."

John's gut constricted at the plea. "I . . ." They needed towels, needed to keep pressure on the wound, stop the gaddamned bleeding, get Sam down the stairs, into the car. They just needed to keep him alive long enough to get him help. He could do that. He could do that.

John Winchester stomped down on his fear. He had a son—two sons—to save.

Pulling on every reserve he had, John brought the marine to the forefront.

"Can you get down the stairs on your own?"

Dean nodded.

"Good," the marine praised, gearing up to carry Sam down the stairs when Sam suddenly moaned, his head rolling to the side, and marine be damned, the father in John clamored past him. "Sammy?"

Thick lashes fluttered up, revealing glossy eyes, too bright around the shadows lining Sam's lean face.

"Dad?" Kid's voice was too breathy.

"I'm here." John's voice came out husky, strained with tears. "I'm here. Gonna fix you up. Just . . . just . . . stay with us, Sam. Okay, just stay with us."

Sam didn't respond to that. His eyelids sank, but didn't close.

"Hey, hey," Dean whispered, twining his fingers through Sam's. "You heard Dad. Don't go anywhere."

"Not," Sam gasped, and John couldn't help smiling at the underlying determination.

"Ready?" John said to Dean, and shifted one arm beneath Sam's knees and his other across the kid's back. Sam cried, features clenched tight when John shifted him into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know it hurts." He kissed Sam's hair, just holding him there until the pain subsided and then carefully got to his feet.

He carried Sam slowly down the stairs, painstakingly feeling each placement of his foot, keeping an ear out for Dean's progress behind them. The kid was barely on his feet, but Dean was tough. And with the urgency to get Sam out of this house, he'd roll down the staircase if that was the only way.

They stepped over shards of the broken chandelier and made it to the large front doors when the oldest kid, the one who showed them how to get out of the walled-in room, appeared in their path, arms folded, blocking their way.

His son didn't have time for this.

The other ghost children appeared, watching.

Dean pulled his bag of salt from his pocket. "Want me to get rid of them?"

John glanced down at Sam, out cold in his arms."No." He looked at the ghosts. "I'm taking my boy out of here. He needs help I can't give him. But I promise, we'll be back to set things right for you."

The oldest boy glanced around at the others, and then faded away. They all faded away. The giant doors swung inward.

With no further invitation warranted, John carried Sam out into the cool of night and straight toward the Impala.

**ooo000ooo**

Sam woke to Dean's blurry face hovering inches above his own, puffs of breath flowing like whispers over his skin. _". . . to be okay we're almost there I got you you're going to be fine I promise I promise Sam we're going to fix this . . ."_

They were in the back seat of the Impala—he'd recognize the feel and smell of that car without looking—his head resting on the hard planes of Dean's thighs. The low rumble of the car must have lolled him to sleep. He couldn't remember where they were going.

He felt really funny, floaty, like if he started flapping he could soar away, except something was wrong with Dean. His brother was crying and speaking so fast Sam could barely understand him. Dean never cried so Sam stayed where he was. He was tired anyway. Sleepy. He'd try flying another day. Besides Dean was crying and Sam wouldn't leave him like that. He let his head press more heavily into Dean's lap, letting him know he was here, he was still here. He felt safe in the car anyway . . . protected . . .

Until the Impala hit a bump and an icy slash of pain splintered through his stomach, vibrating across his entire body and he clawed to get away from it.

"_NonoSamno Dad something's wrong SamSammy . . .come baaaack . . ."_

The next thing Sam knew he was on pavement, staring up at the stars, something cupped over his mouth and nose, trapping his noisy exhalations in cloudy vapor.

_"Pass him onto the gurney. One. Lift . . ."_

Sam floated away, carried along a bobbing current of blissful darkness and snatches of moments he didn't remember happening. Bright lights streaked overhead above hazy unrecognizable faces, wheels squeaking beneath as a sharply lit ceiling rolled by.

He fell from the sky, streaming through the air beside angels that fell with him, wings bursting into purpling flame, trailing smoke and misery that wafted to the earth like dark feathers on a gentle breeze, until he settled softly on a cushion that smelled of antiseptics and sweat. Voices echoed over a steady beeping.

_". . . watch him, but at his young age, the spleen still retains the ability to repair itself . . ."_

His eyelids felt gooey and glued closed. It took more effort than Sam had to slide them open so he gave up and went chasing fireflies along a darkening path where paper vines wound along the ground and satyrs and cupids leaped about between trees and doorways.

The next he awoke, he was in the car again. It was quiet and unmoving. Stars filled the little patch of black sky he could see through the rectangle of the rear window. The entire back seat had been transformed into a bed of pillows, sheets and blankets, and Sam smiled, sinking sleepily into warmth and comfort and safely.

A breeze filtered through the open door, bringing the scent of smoke, fire.

Worried, Sam sat up and hissed at the sharp lance at the side of his belly.

Immediately the Impala rocked and Dean was there, poking his head through the open door. "Sammy? Oh, hey, you shouldn't be trying to sit up." Dean came inside, one knee resting on the seat between Sam's legs. "Come on, let's get you laying back down."

"I don't want to lie down." Sam yawned. "What's going on?"

Dean froze, staring as though he hadn't seen him for years even though it was really too dark to see that clearly. Dean's palm lifted to Sam's cheek, a gesture he usually reserved for times when Sam was sick. "You with me this time?"

Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Have I been sick?" Is that what was going on?

"Sick?" Dean looked a little stunned. He cocked his head. "Bit of an understatement." He smiled and backed out of the door. "Dad. Sam's awake. Really awake this time."

Footsteps carried on gravel and suddenly their dad's larger frame occupied the space Dean had just been in. "Sammy?" Leaning closer, John placed the back of his hand across Sam's forehead, feeling for fever. His features were ragged, the way he looked after an extremely long and difficult hunt when it took several days of sleep for the deep lines to smooth from his face.

"How are you feeling, kiddo?"

Actually a little freaked out by the way Dean and Dad were acting. Sam wrinkled his nose, not sure what he was supposed to say. "My stomach hurts a little. When I move. Have I been sick?"

John looked behind his shoulder at Dean who was still hovering close. Their silhouettes wavered slightly in front of a crackling fire several yards away.

Dad's calloused hand moved from Sam's forehead, but didn't leave, instead sliding into Sam's hair. "Do you remember the hunt?"

Pursing his lips together, Sam concentrated. He remembered vines and cupids and falling angels. Pentagrams and murdered children and a witch who crooned kind promises while a silver blade brought fire and agony inside his stomach.

Sam flinched, his hands dropping to the side of his belly where he felt thick gauze and tape beneath his T-shirt. Eyes wide, he nodded and started shaking.

"Hey, hey." Somehow his dad was closer, a large comforting arm wrapped tightly around Sam's back. "It's been a scary couple of days, but you made it. You're okay. You're going to be okay."

Sam nodded, feeling about as far from okay as he could get. The witch had stabbed him. But his dad was here and Dean was here and they were safe, which made him safe.

"I'm glad you woke up," John said. "Might help to see it through."

"See it through?" Sam was surprised at how quiet his voice came out.

"The hunt." Dad had his other arm beneath Sam's knees and was sliding him out with him. Once they cleared the car John cradled Sam against him like a baby. It was kind of embarrassing, but Sam's stomach hurt and his whole body felt weird, tingly and weak. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand on his own.

Fortunately his dad carried him over to the front of the car and set Sam down on the hood, keeping one arm around him to steady him. Dean sidled next to Sam, leaning back against the car, close enough that it seemed natural when Sam edged forward to rest his shoulder against Dean's.

The large mansion loomed in front of them, quiet and shadowy, the two front wings ready to enclose them at the slightest provocation. Though uneasy, Sam was unafraid because nothing bad could happen while he sat between his brother and dad.

He glanced toward the flames rising up from a large hole in the weeds that must have once been a manicured lawn. "Is that her?"

"Nah, Sammy," Dean answered. "We took care of the witch at the back of the house. Didn't feel it'd be right to the kids to lay them to rest in the same place as her."

Sam nodded, his throat closing around what he didn't really know how to say anyway and let his head rest against Dean's shoulder and felt the steadiness of his dad's arm at the small of his back and when he looked back to the fire, the ghost of the psychic boy stood there. The kid nodded once and then melted away.

_**FIN**_


End file.
